


Razor's Edge

by beetlejoos



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Psychological Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:14:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29756694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetlejoos/pseuds/beetlejoos
Summary: Malcolm finds himself trapped in a precarious situation.
Comments: 30
Kudos: 94





	Razor's Edge

_So this is a thing,_ thinks Malcolm muzzily as the room spins gently around him. _Looters coming to rob the houses of murder victims._

Just when you thought the world couldn’t get any more depressing.

He clumsily tries to gets his arms underneath him, to push himself to his knees, when a shoe plants itself firmly between his shoulder blades and shoves him back to the floor. “Stay down,” snaps the guy who Malcolm is currently labelling ‘Big Man’, on the basis he’s roughly the size of a house.

“Staying down,” Malcolm agrees, his cheek pressed against cold concrete. He can still hear the other guy (‘Green Man’ on account of his godawful green beanie) angrily slamming cupboards behind him. He’s fully aware just how badly he’s already pissed these guys off. The smartest thing right now, he knows, is not to push them any further.

Malcolm had been on route to interview the mother of their latest victim when he’d decided to head back to the scene of the crime to take another look around. He’d developed a psychological itch that they were missing something important about Millie’s personal life, and was sure her house would tell him if his hunch was correct. Millie lived alone, so Malcolm had ducked under the police tape and planned to be in and out in ten minutes - enough time to make it to the interview, maybe even pick up a tea for Dani on the way.

Then he’d heard a noise downstairs.

The two burglars who’d jumped him hadn’t been expecting a guy with FBI training. Despite the odds, Malcolm had managed to get the upper hand - until a third guy, currently standing guard upstairs, joined in the fight. By that time, Malcolm had broken Green Man’s nose… and from the muttered swearing floating over from the far corner of the basement, he doesn’t appear to be in a particularly forgiving mood.

“Hurry up and find something to tie him up,” demands Big Man from above him.

“I’m looking!” There’s a clatter that sounds like Green Man kicking a pile of crates over, and the ceramic chink of plant pots being moved. “Little shit fucked up my face. I should repay the favour.”

“You shouldn’t have let him slug you,” says Big Man, unimpressed. “We need to be out of here. Come on.” There’s a metallic _rustling_ sound that sets Malcolm’s teeth on edge and then Green Man speaks again.

“Alright,” he says, with an odd kind of satisfaction to his voice. “Get him ready.”

There’s a soft laugh from the man standing above him, one that sets alarms ringing in Malcolm’s head. Before he can figure out what’s going on, the shoe is lifted off his spine and Malcolm’s wrestled out of his jacket and dragged into a bear hug on the floor - one arm wrapping round his chest, the other yanking his head back against Big Man’s shoulder so all he can see is the dingy ceiling above them. He grits his teeth, resisting the urge to strike out - _three against one_ , he reminds himself; _be smart, they’re only going to restrain you…_ Footsteps circle round and then more hands grab his arms roughly, pulling them out in front of him.

Something cold is looped around his wrists. It’s pulled tight and it _burns_ — Malcolm tries to yank his hands away instinctively and lets out a sharp cry as the movement dials the pain up to eleven. He freezes instead, as Big Man releases his grip and gets to his feet behind him.

“That’ll keep him still,” he snorts. He says something else but Malcolm misses it, distracted by pain as he looks down to see what’s snarled around his wrists. His heart flips: a strange mix of outrage and horror.

They’ve bound him with barbed wire.

Green Man crouches down in front of him and now Malcolm sees the rest of the coil, still attached to the wire around his wrists, gripped in his gloved hands. He gives Malcolm a blood-smeared grin. “I’d hold still for this, if I was you.”

Malcolm looks at him, stunned. “No,” he says uselessly, because the man _can’t_ be serious.

Green Man chuckles. “Oh _yes_.”

Malcolm tries to twist away as the man leans in closer - and the wire pulls taut, skewering the delicate skin of his wrists. He goes rigid as a statue, a desperate reflex to stop all those tiny teeth from tearing into him, and the man takes the opportunity to loop more wire around his chest. Instinctively Malcolm presses his arms against his sides, makes himself small - the _worst_ thing he could do. He’s robbed himself of any wiggle room, he realises, too late… and now a hundred tiny spikes are prickling through his shirt, lodging in his skin…

Green Man yanks the wire tight. Malcolm _howls_.

A moment later his legs are being pulled out in front of him and just the shift in the angle of his torso is like _fire_. “Stop,” he gasps, “stop! Don’t!” but the man doesn’t listen. Already the coil is snaking around his thighs, sinking needles into his flesh on its way to loop around his knees. Malcolm can’t even make any kind of move to resist as the man calmly finishes tying him up and maybe that’s the worst part of all.

Green Man tucks the end of the coil between his shoes and grins at the furious, helpless look on Malcolm’s face. Then he walks off somewhere behind him. Malcolm daren’t try and twist to see where he’s gone. He sits, exactly as he’s been left, desperately trying to get a handle on his situation.

He’s been secured by a single length of razor wire. It weaves around his wrists; curls round his chest and stomach; spirals round his legs. He tries to shift his weight a fraction and whimpers as the barbs slide in deeper, stabbing him all over his body.

He can hear the men moving, shifting things behind him.

Malcolm can’t move _at all._

He’s forced to hold the awkward position he’s been left in - sitting in the middle of the concrete floor; legs half bent, wrists suspended between his knees and his stomach. The only way to save himself from vicious agony is to stay as still as possible, the slightest motion sending ripples through the network of spikes pressing into him _._ When he tries to sit up straighter they gouge into his wrists; when he tries to move his feet they slice into the underside of his thighs. He can’t even _breathe in_ deeply.

Malcolm’s used to being restrained on a nightly basis. He can handle a little discomfort, but _this…_ _this is unbearable,_ he thinks wildly.

His back is already beginning to hurt. There’s a growing ache in his forearms at holding his hands out before him like a supplicant. Already, Malcolm can see blood sliding out from the hot prickle of wire around his wrists. Sweat rolls down the back of his neck. It _tickles._

He’s flooded with horror at the idea of being _left_ here like this; of having to hold this position until somebody finds him. He won’t be able to do it… and the second his body fails him, the second he collapses against the floor or shifts position, he’ll be in excruciating pain. _He needs to make them free him -_ the alternative is too nightmarish to contemplate. A few minutes of this enforced stillness has already been enough; he’ll lose his mind if he has to stay like this for hours.

Green Man strolls back over and smirks down at him. “How’s that feel?”

“It hurts,” Malcolm grits out. His voice is weak and strained; taking in the air to speak louder would sink a hundred spines into his chest. “You got… your own back, ok? You had… your fun. Now take it off me… Please.”

Green Man crouches, looking over his own handiwork in fascination… and Malcolm’s stomach shrinks as he sees the way his pupils dilate, the satisfied curve of his smile. He claps a hand on Malcolm’s knee - jarring his legs, wrenching the wire - and laughs at the yelp it wrings out of him. When he looks into his eyes, there’s no trace of empathy there.

_Fuck._

“Let’s go,” says Big Man, already at the door. “Boss’ll be waiting.”

“Don’t leave me… like this,” Malcolm urges. He wishes he could talk faster: he’s forced to take shallow breaths by the wire and he doesn’t have the breath. “No one knows… I’m here. I could bleed to death. You don’t want… to kill me…”

Green Man tilts his head, weighing up his options, and Malcolm hates how he’s hanging on his every gesture. His heart speeds up in panic when Green Man gets to his feet without even answering him.

“ _Please,_ ” he gasps. To his mortification, tears are springing into his eyes. He gazes up at them and prays that they're just toying with him, getting payback for the fight. _These men aren’t serial killers…_ _they aren’t like the monsters he hunts on a normal day._ Surely they won’t actually do this to a fellow human being…

Green Man gives him a cold smile. “You have a good day now, sweetheart.”

The door bangs closed behind him.

Their footsteps disappear up the stairs, drowning out the desperate moan that Malcolm can’t hold in. “ _No no no_ ,” he whimpers. _They’ve left him_ … in an empty house no one will be coming home to, with no one who knows where he’s gone. The impulse to weep, to scream, to have a total fucking _meltdown_ is overwhelming - only _he can’t._ He doesn’t have the luxury of panicking or yelling out his frustration and it takes every single scrap of self control he has to swallow it all down and sit in maddening, stifling immobility on the floor as he hears their footsteps die away above him, and the final slam of the front door.

He feels like he can’t _breathe_. If only he’d stopped himself from shrinking when the wire wrapped around him; now, simply expanding his lungs sends needles piercing into his flesh. He learned about stress positions back at the FBI; he knows there’s only so long he’ll be able to stay frozen like this until something gives. And even still as a statue, even doing everything right… the wire _hurts_.

 _His team will figure out he’s missing,_ Malcolm tells himself. _They’ll come for him._ And all he has to do until then is sit on a floor and try not to panic. _He can do that._ He’ll have some cuts and scrapes, but if he holds still, the damage will be minimal.

He’s only in trouble if he loses his head.

But it’s hard to stay calm with the cold, hard facts running through his mind. Malcolm desperately needs someone to find him _soon_ … but he didn’t tell anyone where he was going. Dani will know by now that he’s not where he said that he’d be… but is that enough to make her start _looking_ for him? For her to assume that something’s wrong?

 _He’s not even_ _on_ _the team, not really_ , whispers a dark corner of his mind. _He’s just their consultant._ No one’s expecting him to check in at the precinct, to file paperwork at the end of the day. He’s not somebody’s partner, not someone who’ll be missed… at least, not before it’s too late.

 _No one’s coming to help you_ , whispers the voice in his mind. _No one’s going to worry that you’re gone…_

“They will,” Malcolm says, as firmly as he can manage, because he needs to hear the words out loud. “They’ll notice. They’re going to come.”

*

When an animal is caught in barbed wire, it can’t help itself. The poor creature doesn’t understandthat its struggle for freedom is speeding on its own death. Every movement it makes to escape will only entangle it further, until it tears itself to pieces.

Malcolm is an overeducated adult. His rational mind _knows_ what he must to do to survive… but _god_ , how he understands that animal instinct. It’s not just his aching body that’s shrieking at him to move _._ Knowing that he’s trapped so completely triggers every impulse to thrash and struggle. Worse than the bite of the wire - worse than the physical pain - is the primal panic his civilised brain can’t do anything to turn off. It’s his _mind_ that’s trying to tear itself to pieces… _so he needs to find something else to focus on._ Something that isn't the desire to writhe and struggle and _scream;_ something that isn’t horrible visions of what will happen when exhaustion wins out and he passes out onto razor wire.

He thinks back to his morning affirmation, trying to recall the words on the card. ‘ _I turn problems into learning opportunities,’_ he remembers, and has to bury a hysterical bark of laughter. _Ok - no affirmations, then._ No breathing exercises either; he can’t take any of the deep breaths they’d require and the less he thinks about that, the better.

_… Yoga._

Malcolm closes his eyes and runs through his morning routine. Imagines each position, one after the other. Then he runs through it all again. He mentally hums his way through the first album he bought as a teenager; lists the pharmacological and brand names of all his prescriptions; the states in alphabetical order; every item in his weapons collection.

The agony of his now-trembling muscles gets harder and harder to ignore.

He’s soaked with sweat, simply from sitting here, forcing himself not to slump. What feels like the beginning of a cramp is burgeoning in his right calf, and there’s _no way_ Malcolm’s going to be able to hold perfectly still when it hits. _How long has it been?_ He has no way to measure the time. He doesn’t even know long he can be expected to hold out before his muscles give in to the strain.

 _He can’t carry on like this…_ He has to move. He’s starting to tremble so badly that the barbs are jostling back and forth in his skin. He needs to do _something_ to stop himself from collapsing and cutting himself to the bone.

 _One quick movement_ , he decides: a swift shift of his legs and torso by a couple of inches. It will hurt, but maybe it will do something to ease the strain on his over-taxed muscles.

Malcolm swallows. He slowly counts to ten, praying at every second to hear the sound of a car pulling up outside; some sign his team are about to burst in and save him. But there’s no sound except his own shallow breathing. When he reaches ten he doesn’t let himself think about it - he just _moves._

Within the space of a heartbeat, he knows it’s a terrible mistake.

The wire tears at him, a thousand tiny blades slicing all at once. The coils tighten, and pinioned in the jaws of all those metal teeth, Malcolm _screams._ He tries to move back and that only makes it worse - his panicked breathing only makes it worse - the pain makes him flinch and shudder and every tiny motion _makes it worse_ -

“Help!” It’s too breathless to even qualify as a scream; it’s barely more than an agonised whisper. Hot tears spill down his cheeks, and words are spilling out of him too, “help, help me, somebody help me _please!!_ ” But there’s no one to help him and Malcolm can’t _undo_ what he’s done. He can’t stop writhing from the chain of agony he’s set off and that only makes it hurt all over again…

He’s not sure when, or how, it stops.

Gradually, he simply becomes aware that the pain has become… _predictable_. That his body is no longer spasming in the grip of those coils, but docile, accepting their touch. He no longer feels that hysterical impulse to rip himself free, to twist and flail against his restraints. He’s been cowed by the pain: all he wants is to make himself as small and still as possible.

Malcolm realises he’s moaning faintly; a sound of pure despair. There’s been no reward for his agony. The angle of his back and his legs might have shifted minutely, but the wire was too tight to allow him to alter his position in any fundamental way. The same exhausted muscles are still supporting his weight. He’s shaking all over, his stomach and back and thighs all burning, but he refuses to contemplate the idea of moving again.

_‘I turn problems into learning opportunities.’_

If there’s anything he’s learned from the last few minutes, it’s a better understanding of the agony that’s waiting for him if he loses control. If he moves a second time, he’s not sure he’ll be able to claw his way back to calm. He’ll become that frightened animal conjured up by his imagination, and he’ll rip himself to pieces.

He’s can’t let that happen.

 _This is about endurance,_ he tells himself. And if there’s one thing Malcolm knows he can do, it’s _endure._

His team _are_ coming. He just has to wait.

He prays they won’t make him wait much longer.

*

There must be the approaching roar of the car. The slam of the front door.

Somehow, Malcolm misses them.

He’s too busy _feeling_ and _not feeling_ , both at the same time, a high wire balancing act in his own head. It requires a careful degree of un-focusing, to keep hold of the shape of things and still blunt their edges. _Disassociating_ , whispers a corner of his mind. The trick is to _recede_ from the pain without forgetting the threat of it. To maintain the unbearable tension of his body and float away at the same time.

There’s a creak from above. Malcolm doesn’t let himself notice it. He’s heard the old house creaking around him before; he can’t afford distractions. He doesn’t want to be dragged out of his head back into his body… _back into that wire cage…_

“I swear to God,” says a voice, drifting down through the old floorboards. “If I’m missing date night with Tally and he’s not even here…”

The words filter through his brain slowly. _JT,_ gabbles a small, clear corner of his mind; _JT is here,_ _and…_

“You ever known Bright to disappear _mid-case_ before?” Another creak. “No way he would’ve missed questioning the mom if he could help it.”

… _Dani._ JT and Dani are just above him.

It takes him several long, slow seconds to make sense of it; to understand that it’s not all in his head.

“Don’t mean he’s here, though,” grumbles JT. “Who knows what crazy lead the guy’s gone chasing after.”

_No… he’s here, he’s right here…_

The idea that his team might not realise it is more than enough to knock Malcolm off his mental perch; he jerks in panic and immediately his eyes fill with tears. “Here! I’m here!” His voice is barely a rasp, raw and constricted like the rest of him _._ “Dani! JT!”

They can’t hear him. He can hear their footsteps carrying on, unconcerned above him, and feels a new, terrible fear seize him.

“Bright!” calls Dani. “Bright, you here? Hello?”

 _They’ve come; they’ve come to_ _save_ _him and he can’t even tell them he’s_ _here_ … With a bolt of terror Malcolm imagines them walking out of the door, leaving him here, trapped and alone… _and they will, because his voice isn’t loud enough._ He’s going to have to _move_ , he realises wildly, to bang on the floor. His lip trembles at the idea but he tries to take in the deepest breath he can manage, bracing himself for the agony…

“You check upstairs, I’ll try downstairs,” says JT, and then his heavy tread is echoing on the steps. He’s muttering something Malcolm can’t make out through the wall and through his daze of panic, Malcolm realises they’re not leaving.

They’re searching the house.

The irrational fear that JT’s somehow going to miss him has him crumbling to pieces with every approaching footstep. He can’t stop himself from trying to call out and maybe JT hears him, maybe he doesn’t - either way, the door ahead of him finally swings open. JT walks in.

For a single second he freezes, his eyes landing on Malcolm’s tearstained, desperate face… and then he’s moving. He rushes forwards, just as Malcolm realises he can’t hold out any longer.

“‘m gonna fall,” Malcolm gasps, “I can’t… I’m gonna…”

“It’s ok man, you’re gonna be ok,” JT says urgently, dropping down beside him.

His eyes scan frantically over every inch of him as he grabs something from the pile of old crates by the wall, sliding it under Malcolm’s knees. Then he disappears behind him, and Malcolm’s too lost to pain and panic to understand what’s happening. “No, no, help,” he moans, “come back -” because he’s beyond exhaustion now and JT’s _gone_ and he _can’t -_

“I’m not leaving you,” comes JT’s voice, right behind him. A second later a broad hand wraps itself around the base of his neck, another one resting flat against his back between the coils of wire. “I’ve got you. You’re not gonna fall.” The hands are shockingly warm against his skin. JT shifts and Malcolm realises he’s kneeling directly behind him. “ _Bright._ I got you. You can lean back.”

It takes a moment for Malcolm to process the words. Even though he’s been desperately holding out for the moment he can relax his muscles and take the agonising strain off his own body… he can’t seem to make himself do it. It’s like he doesn’t remember _how_.

The hand squeezes his neck gently. “Just let yourself go limp,” says JT, and either his brain unlocks or his body finally gives out because Malcolm does, and if it wasn’t for the hand under his back he’d puddle to the floor like jello. But his body stays propped up exactly as it is; the wire doesn’t bite any deeper, and the sheer relief of being able to _let go_ makes his eyes fill with tears.

“That’s it,” murmurs JT encouragingly. “We’re gonna get you out of this. It’s not gonna be much longer. I’m gonna call for Dani, ok?”

There’s a pause… and then Malcolm realises JT is making sure he won’t startle him. “Ok,” he manages, and JT bellows Dani’s name in the direction of the stairs. Hazy as he is, Malcolm can’t help noticing how swiftly and calmly JT has reacted to the situation, identifying how best to help him within seconds of entering the room. If his mind was clearer, he’d be diving down a rabbit hole of speculation about JT's army days… but as it is he’s content to simply let the other man hold him up while he tries not to dissolve into hysterics. He lets his eyes slide closed and focuses on breathing his way back to calm.

Footsteps hammer down the stairs, then come to an abrupt halt.

“Oh my god…”

“Call a bus,” says JT, his own hands being a little full, and maybe Malcolm does pass out for a minute, because the next thing he knows the two of them are muttering above him… JT saying something about _sections_ and Dani saying something about _blood_. There’s the sound of someone kneeling down beside him.

“Hey,” says Dani gently.

Malcolm aims for as much composure as he can as he cracks his eyes open. Dani’s face is pale, her eyes wide with concern, but she’s clearly doing her best to radiate calm. “Hey,” he croaks and she gives him a relieved flicker of a smile.

His eyes slide weakly to what’s on the floor beside her: an old, rusted toolbox with a pair of cutters sticking out of it. Malcolm feels his heart beating into overdrive… because his team are right here and the cutters are right here, and _thank god_ he won’t have to sit like this for _one minute longer…_

He looks back to Dani eagerly.

“I’m going to start getting this stuff off you,” she says, as if answer to his expression. “I’ll be as gentle as I can, I promise. But it’s… it’s gonna take a little time.”

He must look like she’s slapped him. “No,” he breathes, because he’s not interested in _slow,_ he’s just come out the other side of _interminable._ “Just cut it off. Get it off me.”

“I’m gonna,” she promises, “I’m gonna do that Bright… but these spines are all _connected._ We have to be careful and go slow, or I might end up hurting you worse.”

“I don’t care, just _get it the fuck off me_ ,” he sobs, “I don’t care if it hurts _\- please_ , Dani -“

“Hey - hey, look at me…” Her cool hands come up to cup his face. “Bright, look at me. That’s it.” She waits until she knows he’s listening, her eyes steady and dark before him. “Me and JT, we’re gonna get you out of this, I swear. You’ve made it this far… this is just gonna be a little bit longer. And we’re with you now, ok? You’re not on your own.”

She holds his gaze and doesn’t let go until he offers her the tiniest of nods. Her hands come away wet with tears. She wipes them on her jeans without comment.

“Do you need anything before I start? Water… something to sit on…”

“No,” he whispers.

“Ok.” She picks up the cutters, and while she’s doing her best to hide it, Malcolm can see her nerves. Her eyes flick to JT behind him, and then she nods. “You want me to start with your wrists?”

“Chest,” he grits out. “Hard… to breathe.”

JT mutters an obscenity behind him. Dani makes a careful snip and Malcolm gasps as the tension of the wire sags, nudging all those tiny needles. The sting is more than counterbalanced by his sudden ability to expand his chest and he sucks in air greedily; deep, intoxicating gulps, ignoring the pain that comes with it. “Thank you,” he breathes. He glances back down as Dani makes another snip, leaving a section of wire cut free from rest of the coil. It stays in place despite no longer being attached, suspended by the spines dug into his flesh.

Dani bites her lip. She reaches out to tug out the first spine -

“Wait,” rasps Malcolm. “They wore… gloves. Behind me… somewhere.”

Dani gives him an incredulous look. “Are you -"

“Dani, just get the damn gloves,” mutters JT impatiently. Dani grabs them and Malcolm offers her a weak smile as she kneels back down beside him.

“Would you believe… it’s pretty sharp?” Dani doesn’t look amused.

“Tell me if you need me to stop.” And then she’s pulling the spines out, one by one, adjusting her grip to ensure each one slides out at the same angle it went in. Malcolm does his best to repress the little sounds of pain that try to slip out from between his clenched teeth.

He’s not particularly successful.

“I think this shirt might be a write off,” Dani says conversationally, after a couple of pain-filled minutes. Malcolm chuckles. Or at least, he hopes he does. It comes out sounding suspiciously like a sob.

“Today… would’ve been a good day… to wear a waistcoat. Should’ve… layered up.”

“There is never a good day wear a waistcoat,” mutters JT and Dani hides her smirk behind her hair.

“You think this is bad… you should’ve seen what happened to JT’s outfit on the Gretsky case. Right, JT?”

“Right,” says JT. Dani’s eyes flick upward and Malcolm can practically _feel_ the moment JT cottons on behind him. “Uh, right! Yeah, the Gretsky case. We ever tell you about that one?” Malcolm shakes his head. He doesn’t trust himself not to whimper if he stops keeping his jaw clamped shut.

“It was pretty funny,” says Dani, snipping away at a new section of wire. JT huffs.

“Yeah, funny if you were standing on the other side of the dock. _Not_ funny if you’re the guy who ended up covered in fish guts.”

JT keeps on talking as Dani works… telling stories about old cases, asking gentle questions about what happened before they got there, checking Malcolm’s as comfortable as he can be. Dani chips in every now and then, but most of her focus is taken up with the wire as she works her way round his torso. Malcolm knows they’re doing it to try and distract him - it’s not like they’re being particularly subtle - but he’s still inexpressibly grateful for it. It turns out his shirt has done something to protect him from the wire, but his bare wrists are a different story. By the time his hands are free Malcolm’s a shaking mess and Dani’s own eyes are wet with tears. 

The paramedics arrive moments later and Dani lets them take over, slipping her hand into his and sitting beside him instead while Malcolm slumps bonelessly against JT’s chest and tries to nod in the right places as they talk. They bandage his wrists and start work on his legs and finally - after what feels like a lifetime since those men walked out of here and left him - the final piece of wire is cut away. Malcolm’s too exhausted by then to do any of the things he was worried about - curl up in the foetal position, weep in hysterical relief. He just tries to feel grateful to be free, and to cherish the knowledge that - if he ever feels the desire to move again - he’ll be able to.

He’s only able to escape a hospital visit by surrendering what’s left of his dignity and stripping down to let the medics examine the rest of him, while JT and Dani hover outside the door. They patch him up and help him dress again while Malcolm promises to follow their strict instructions, but he flatly refuses to let them stretcher him upstairs. It’s an argument that looks set to go on longer than he can cope with until JT finally shoos the EMTs away with assurances the two of them will be keeping a firm eye on him.

Malcolm smiles gratefully up at them where he’s slumped against the wall, wrapped in the blanket Dani foraged from somewhere upstairs. “Thank you,” he rasps. “I really didn’t fancy spending the night in a hospital. But you guys don’t actually have to see me home. You’ve already done enough.”

JT and Dani exchange glances above him. “You’re ridiculous,” Dani informs him. “There is no way we are putting you in an _Uber_ right now, Bright. Do you have food in your fridge?” Malcolm blinks at her, wrong-footed. “Food? Fridge?” she prompts.

“I, uh… I have… licorice?”

“We’re getting delivery,” she concludes, slipping her phone out of her pocket. “Mexican?”

“Mexican,” confirms JT. Dani frowns down at her screen.

“It's Gil. Asking if I’ve heard from you.” _Shit._ Where _is_ his phone? Did they take it? Malcolm pointlessly pats down what’s left of his pockets, glancing round for his crumpled ball of a jacket.

“You uh… you don’t have to tell Gil about this. There’s really no need for him to know, when you think about it.”

“You mean aside from the fact he’ll murder us both if he finds out and we didn’t tell him?”

“Guys, come on! He doesn’t have to find out. It can be our secret. Like a… a team bonding thing!” He looks at them both, appealing. “…Right?”

There’s a pause, during which JT and Dani appear to have some kind of secret conversation made entirely of eyebrow movements and exasperated gestures. Even if he wasn’t woozy from blood loss and exhaustion, Malcolm’s not sure he’d be able to decode it.

“Fine,” says Dani at last. “But over dinner, you’re giving us a full description of the guys who did this. We’re putting out a BOLO.”

“Dani, they were just some low grade thieves,” Malcolm points out. “It’s not exactly Major Crimes business.”

“I don’t care if all they steal is candy,” mutters JT darkly. “This time tomorrow, they’re gonna be in cuffs. You good to go?”

“Yeah… I’m fine,” says Malcolm, but nonetheless JT ends up practically lifting him to his feet, and being the only thing that stops him face-planting onto the concrete the second he finds himself upright. He gratefully accepts the man’s arm to lean on, blinking stars out of his eyes, and comes back to himself to see both of their worried faces looking at him.

“I’m fine,” he insists weakly. He ducks his head, suddenly overwhelmed by just how much the two of them have done for him. “Thank you,” he mumbles, and he really hopes he’s not about to cry again. “For… for everything. I knew you guys would come.”

After a moment Dani takes his hand, giving it a squeeze.

“No thanks required,” says JT. “Come on. Let’s get the hell out of here.” He keeps a firm grip on Malcolm’s arm as they slowly shuffle forwards, and Dani doesn’t let go of his hand. Supported on either side, Malcolm makes his way out of the basement, and his team take him home.


End file.
